


saline solution to all my problems

by London_The_Loser



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Burns, Dadza, Drinking, Family Dynamic, Hook-Up, Hurt/Comfort, Hypochondria, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury, Insecurity, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Sleep Deprivation, Smoking, TW: hand holding, Trust Issues, Unhealthy Relationships, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, because hes toUCH STARVED, can someone please tell me what i'm doing, duh - Freeform, hes so tired lmao, not really abuse i guess, oh shit she's back with the bad angst, self hatred, simply done living, starting this off with a BANgER, suicide ideation, thinking about death too fucking much, toxic parents and relationships smh, wdym thats not a tag??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:42:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27795565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/London_The_Loser/pseuds/London_The_Loser
Summary: {love and trust was always a bittersweet cocktail that wilbur never failed to turn sour, although he thinks he had always been searching for a fix instead of a bond. he doesn't want to accept the fact that his friend's felt less like an obsession and more like a relationship. he didn't know how to handle relationships.}orthree times wilbur chose the shittiest fucking coping mechanisms possible and the one time things start turning around and he does something healthy :)orsaline solution to all my problems p.s. the solution my man going for is ignoring all his fucking problems
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 61
Kudos: 330





	1. sad no happy

**Author's Note:**

> my tagging and description skills are wonderful for 2am
> 
> why is this so long. why do i do this to myself. i- 
> 
> (if there isn't a second chapter then there isn't a happy ending, WIP type beat, not in the mood for fluff rn)

there was a ping from his bathroom counter. 

wilbur blinked his eyes open slowly, wincing as he slowly unfurled his stiff limbs. straightening out his knees sent a dull ache up his spine, but it was the sharp sting of his jeans rubbing against his upper thigh's that had him clenching his jaw lightly. the skin on his hands was dry and cracked from how often he had scrubbed them raw, and his back and shoulders were still pink from scalding hot showers. it took a few attempts to push himself out of the empty bathtub he had made his home for the past three hours, stumbling clumsily as soon as he straightened. his vision tilted, weak from lack of sleep and food. he was probably dehydrated. he was probably dying. 

it was only a few paces from the edge of his bathtub to the bathroom counter, but by the time he was able to grasp at his phone, he eyelids were drooping dangerously. the cold kept him a little present, winding up his bare arms and raising goosebumps in its wake. he had spent the last couple days shivering miserably, windows propped open in every corner of his house. it was pointless to complain and pointless to acknowledge, any hope having practically dissipated the first time he tried to close them again. his hands didn't stop shaking for the next few hours. 

phone is hand, the musician sank down the wall, tucking his knees under his chin protectively once he hit the floor. the bathroom he was in had remained well lit throughout wilbur's sulking, so the light of his phone screen barely phased him as he investigated the source of the notification. 

it was tommy. 

wilbur's stomach churned slightly, the idea of talking to any of his friends had been a looming presence the past couple days. he knew he should be reaching out. he knows he's lonely, he's pretty sure he's drowning in it. his brain was poison and he was trapped inside, snow drifting slowly as it piled higher and higher outside his door. maybe if he had the foresight to escape his own self destruction while he still could, he wouldn't be here. cold on the bathroom floor in his empty house, too scared of implementing himself into his friend's conversations in fear of ruining the one good thing in his life. he was doing well, all things considered. contacting them during an episode would just end up like it always did; he'd drive away his relationships, and with it, his chance of being happy. 

wilbur sighed, letting his head fall back against the wall behind him, long fingers pushing gently against the cuts on his upper leg, trying to drive away the exhaustion slipping into the forefront of his mind. a wet cough heaved its way out of his lungs, followed by a weak sniffle. it was probably a cold. it had to be a cold. he hadn't been anywhere, the temperature was low in london, he has been ridiculously safe as always, and his immune system was shit from the poor conditions he constantly allowed his body to waste away in. he would be back to normal soon. he would be okay. maybe if he actually _slept, drank water, ate something,_ he would get over his meager illness. 

his phone pinged again, snapping him out of his thoughts. tommy again. maybe he should check the messages. _what if i say something? what if i snap at him? what if he can tell how quickly i'm wasting away? how do i tell him that i'm_ dying, _that i'm going to die, that i'm going to die without saying goodbye to any of my friends or family, die alone in an empty house with the windows open and the rain dripping onto the floor, my corpse slowly decomposing because nobody would notice that i'm gone. maybe that's for best, maybe that's what i want, you can't be afraid of death if you're dead, you can't fuck up when you're dead, you can't-_

he hadn't noticed the sporadic chimes of his phone next to him until the sound of his phone ringing filtered in. wilbur glanced down at the dull red seeping through his jeans, huffing tiredly when he realized he should probably answer the call. tommy might get worried, or maybe he was streaming and wanted to talk to wilbur, or maybe he was thinking too much and _needed_ to talk to wilbur, or maybe he was dying too. either way, he wasn't one to ignore calls. texts? easy, he could always read them later and respond if he felt like it. calls? something uncomfortable always tugged at his chest when he thought about what he might be missing. 

taking one last steadying breath, wilbur answered the call. 

"hello, mr. william soot! why have you been ignoring me?" the teenager called brightly, starting off the conversation with his usual energy. wilbur wished it helped bring feeling back into his chest, but he thinks it just makes his headache worse. something like dread made the man dig his fingertips back into his wounds, disregarding the spreading blood stains in favor of grounding himself. he couldn't fuck this up. 

"hello, gremlin child. are you streaming?" wilbur cringed at the sound of his own raspy voice, weak and strained from days of coughing and dehydration.

"yup." the blond responded, popping the 'p'. wilbur let his eyes fall shut for a second before making a decision, hoisting himself up using the bathroom counter and stumbling out of the room into his frigid house. maybe if he made himself a cup of coffee he could manage to be tolerable, maybe even entertaining. he had a part to play, no matter how hollow and shitty he felt. 

he shuffled weakly down the hall, attempting to keep himself steady with one hand on the wall while holding his phone up with the other. "why are you spamming me while streaming?". tommy scoffed and wilbur could hear his chair creaking lightly, an image of the teenager rolling his eyes and leaning back in his seat immediately appearing in wilbur's head. it made him smile, just a little. 

"did you even read the messages i sent?"

"no." he said, staring longingly at his comfy leather couch before wandering towards his coffee maker, moving mechanically as he poured the grounds into a filter and added in a good amount of water. he didn't necessarily drink coffee that often, preferring tea, but it kept him awake and was healthier than energy drinks. wilbur honestly couldn't imagine how techno was still alive, considering he consumed a ridiculous amount of the stuff. tommy made an offended noise on the other line, keyboard key's clicking violently as he carried on whatever he was doing. 

"i wanna play trivia with you." the boy said, unaware of the effect it had on wilbur, who's hands stilled in their hunt for a clean mug. _trivia? i can't fucking think right now. why trivia? what?_

"what... what kind of trivia?" 

the other boy cackled, and wilbur's hands shook as he set his mug down on the counter. he was starting to get cold again, light tremors running over his skin as he watched nearly black coffee drip into the pot, steam wafting out from under the dispenser. his fingers twitched just thinking about a warm mug in his hands, hot liquid sliding deep into his stomach and warming up his insides. he hoped the coffee wouldn't make him sick, considering it was the only thing in his stomach right now. he doesn't even think he _had_ food to eat, cabinets empty after weeks of distraction. he regretted thinking about eating the moment it came up, abdomen cramping painfully from neglect. 

"why do you sound so scared? obviously it's not gunna be harder than your... college stuff or whatever. didn't you do well in the college video thing? where you took the test. i think." 

wilbur pushed down the brief hint of frustration, obviously recognizing that tommy was just teasing him like normal. tried not to think about how crazed and confused his brain has been recently, how he spent months of college fueled by desperation and insecurity. it really wasn't relevant. they were talking about trivia. 

"tommyinnit, have you been watching my videos?" he teased, perking up at the beeping of his coffee machine. it was difficult to steadily pour the contents of the pot into his mug, hands still shaking violently, but he managed. 

"wh- _excuse me,_ are you implying that you don't watch _my_ videos? isn't this a friendship thing? don't friends support each other and what-not? what an asshole move, wilbur soot. shame on you, really. chat, i can't believe that wibur soot is admitting to be the shittiest friend ever." tommy spluttered, keyboard clicking still present in the background. wilbur grinned, chuckling at the irony. _i_ am _the shittiest friend._ wilbur went to go pick of his mug, wrapping his fingers around the smooth ceramic and sucking in a content breath before stepping away from the counter. 

it didn't really go as planned. 

if you were watching tommy's stream, you would probably hear a rustle, the sound of stumbling feet, the sound of shattering glass, a pained whimper and a harsh curse. you probably would have been concerned, and you could probably tell that tommy was also concerned. he wouldn't tell chat directly, too busy scrambling to switch to mobile discord and take the call off speaker. 

if you were with wilbur, you would have seen him pull back from the counter and sway dangerously, no doubt from a bout of dizziness. he stumbled forward heavily, catching himself but obviously struggling, resulting in his hands loosening their grip on his mug. the liquid hit his thigh and foot before the cup hit the floor, but he couldn't feel the burn of the scalding liquid until the shattering mug yanked his attention downwards. _fuck_ that hurt. instead of scrambling to get a towel or dustpan like one might've, the twenty year old blinked a few times at the floor before collapsing onto it, muttering strings of curses as he attempted to yank his coffee soaked jeans off. his cuts were on fire, the skin around them rubbed raw as he struggled to shimmy out of the tight confines.

he think's he's crying but he can't really tell, all he knows is that it _burns_ and he can't get it off and he's still on call with tommy and people are going to clip it because he's crying on tommy's fucking stream. what kind of grown man cries over coffee burns? jesus, he's such a mess. 

"-ilbur? wilbur? _will,_ will calm down- _wilbur!_ " 

wilbur flinched, freezing up even though his scalding pants were still hugging his blistering skin. he didn't like yelling. _are you really scared of a 16 year old?_

"yeah?" he said, voice even raspier than it was. he didn't realize he had been making pained little whimpers now and then, his hands were practically vibrating and he could barely hear himself think. _at least i'm not cold anymore,_ he thought bitterly, trying not to spiral. he hopes he didn't freak out tommy, or any of his fans for that matter. 

"okay- okay. wilbur? what happened? are you okay? you're hurt, right? where- what kind- are you okay?" 

despite the panic tinting his brain, wilbur chuckled softly. "i- um- i burnt my legs. with coffee."

tommy swore under his breath, making a quick noise of realization before saying something else. wilbur filtered it out, subconsciously recognizing it wasn't really intended for him. it was silent for a minute, frantic keyboard typing and clicking was filtering through wilbur's phone as he felt the edges of his thoughts start to fizzle and blur, adrenaline coming down and exhaustion rushing to take it's place instead. even with the persistent throb of pain from his leg, what he was sure was a mix of coffee and minimal amounts of blood pooling under him, and the blaring alarms in his head telling him to _get the fuck out of his jeans and do something about the second degree burns on his thighs,_ he could feel himself slipping into what would most likely be the most uncomfortable sleep possible, slowly loosing his grip on reality...

"wilbur? you there?" 

his eyes snapped open, foggy brain struggling to process what was happening. 

"phil?" he said, tilting his head slightly against the cabinets he was propped against, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. when did phil get here?

"hey, will. toms says you got hurt? are you okay? what happened?" phil fired off gently, his questions annunciated in an obviously deliberate way. wilbur tried not to get defensive, considering he was struggling to process what he was saying regardless of the older man's efforts to make it easier on him. 

"i was trying to make coffee and i- dropped the mug. got my jeans drenched in it." 

"okay. do you still have your jeans on?"

"i- yeah."

"right. i'm gunna need you to take those off to let your skin cool down. can you do that for me?" 

and so wilbur got to work, shoving down the bubbling anxiety that kept crawling up his throat, ignoring the itch to pry his fingers into the heated skin of his thigh. the burns almost covered the marks on his skin. almost. you could still see the scars, and it really wouldn't take long to spot the fresh trenches carved jaggedly through his skin. it was a shitty decision, but his head had been full of cotton and his jaw set on edge from anxiety, the two unable to work together as they collided recklessly. the result was panic attacks for no damn logical reason that he could decipher, whatever conversation his mind was having was graciously done without him. he had needed a way to ground himself, take off the edge but add some clarity. it was a temporary fix for a complicated problem, but it was the only one he thought was available. it worked, though. it did. 

"okay. they're off."

"great! em... this might be a tad bit weird but do you mind sending me a picture of the damage so i can get a better idea of what you need? i mean obviously if you know how to treat burns then it's not at all necessary- do you?" phil rambled, the older sounding genuinely worried. wilbur's heart cramped painfully. _he cares about you and you go and fuck yourself over. it's not that hard sleep more, eat more, take care of yourself. why can't you just do it? you're a grown ass man, you should know how to do this. why are you still depending on adults-_ other _adults_ _to take care of you?_

wait. 

picture?

"what?" 

"do you think you could send me a picture of your legs?" phil repeated calmly, more calm than he should be when handling wilbur's shitty processing skills. 

no, he couldn't send phil a picture of his leg's. they were a remarkably depressing sight, from the fiery pink burns to the faded white line running horizontally up and down the length of his leg, a few stragglers straying uncomfortably close to the inner thigh where his arteries sat (he thinks he had probably wanted to die that night, but he can't remember it very well, having been wasted and all). faded white lines but also fresh ones, regrettably fresh, scabbed recently before being torn open by wilbur's bitten down nails. he really shouldn't bite his nails, it made it more difficult to play guitar. 

"um. i think i know what i'm doing". that was a lie. he didn't know how to fix something like this. he had run out of bandages weeks ago, antibiotic products lost in time, disinfectant wipes used quickly in his frantic descent into deep cleaning every surface of his house the moment he caught some unknown sickness (a cold, you fucking idiot. you have _a cold_ ). he thinks he could figure it out via google searches and sifting through cabinets and closets, but he knew the moment phil hung up he'd let himself fall victim to fatigue on the kitchen floor, shards of ceramic keeping him company in the frigid air. 

"...are you sure?"

wilbur swallowed around something pushing its way foreword, blurring his vision with tears and pulling his lips together in a thin line. he could tell phil, send him a picture, ask him to drive to his house and hold his cracking hands. he wonders if he could fold himself tight enough to fit against the older man's side, wonders if he'd ever be small enough to fit into the older man's life. if he just _told him,_ just said something, maybe he could start being okay. maybe the snow hadn't piled too high. he could dig himself out of this pit and start living again. he hated the idea of being treated like glass, but it was better than being broken, wasn't it?

he could tell him. 

he could. 

"yeah, i'm sure phil. thanks for your help dadza, but i got this from here."

love and trust was always a bittersweet cocktail that wilbur never failed to turn sour, although he thinks he had always been searching for a fix instead of a bond. he doesn't want to accept the fact that his friend's felt less like an obsession and more like a relationship. he didn't know how to handle relationships.

////////////

by the time wilbur had picked up, drunk and stumbling home in the dark, phil had already dialed his number 6 times.

wilbur didn't notice the buzzing inside his pocket the first few times, promptly ignored it the next couple, before giving in and answering the call. wilbur didn't need phil anymore, didn't need a fix (it wasn't a fix, it wasn't a drug, it was friendship and he needed _friends_ ). he had it _all_ figured out. it wasn't a hug, but it was damn well something. something less painful than carefully selecting another life to ruin by existing inside it's little bubble. though phil wasn't anything like past friendships or dates or relationships, he was his _minecraft buddy._ his fucking roleplay father. he giggled softly, tipping sideways into a brick wall, probably some suburban cookie cutter house. he lived in a suburban cookie cutter house. 

wilbur giggled again. 

"will! for fucks sake, answer the question!" 

the man in question blinked slowly, swinging his left foot around playfully. what question? was there a question? wilbur had a lot of questions, and he was almost positive phil had _even more._ he really needed to specify. 

"you- right. can you hear me?"

"yeh." he mumbled, reaching his free hand up to tug carefully at the messy curls falling over his eyes, carding the tangled mop to the side a bit. he thinks he had a beanie at some point tonight, but he's not quite sure. regardless, he didn't have it now. 

"where are you?"

huh. weird question. wilbur didn't like that question. he usually didn't like questions he didn't know how to answer, which was self explanatory. where was he? brighten, probably. unless he took the train at some point, which he really doubts. it would be funny if he had, that would mean he was wandering around the middle of fucking nowhere at ass-crack in the night- morning- whatever. 

"um- i am. right where i need to be. and it's quite lovely. the stars are very pretty here, really. i think if i ever figure out where the fuck 'here' is, i'd probably come back to see the stars. do you like stars, phil?" wilbur could hear the other man huff quietly, probably out of annoyance. drunk wilbur doesn't really feel bad about it. if sober wilbur ever finds out he did this, oh _boy._ not gunna be funny. 

"jesus- will, you can't pull this shit, okay? it's not safe to wander around at night, _especially_ if you're this inebriated."

"okay _dad._ " wilbur shot back, fully intending it to be a joke but still receiving an uncomfortable feeling of _something_ in his chest. if phil was his dad, he think's he might be a little more normal. probably not okay, but normal. less shitty. wilbur likes to think he got most of his bad traits from his dad, but maybe that was just an excuse and a shitty coping mechanism, although it _definitely_ wouldn't be his worst. 

"where were you, anyway? why are you out this late?"

"oh it was wonderful, philza minecraft. she was pretty as shit, too. i think she liked my... hair or something. i can't remember what she said, really. i think she liked how skinny i am, which is a weird thing to like. she should really work on that-" he cut himself off with another breathy giggle, unable to process the heavy box that obviously needed unpacking. he was coping, he thinks. at least she never commented on his thighs, not like any of the other ones. on time someone even downright refused, scrambling away and insisting that they were _taking advantage of him._ it was a shitty night. "-especially since i'm a weird amount of skinny. nobody ever _specifically_ appreciates my skinny... ness. usually my face. sometimes they like my singing, if i sing. did you know i sing- of course you know i sing. that was a dumb question." he rambled on, thoughts descending into chaos is he attempted to put them into words. "if anything, i'm sure most of them are freaked out by it. 'who is that skinny and why do they wanna fuck?'. like why does that have anything to do with-"

"will, what do you mean 'a weird amount of skinny'?" phil asked tiredly, although wilbur is sure he hears concern in his voice. it made his lungs feel vaguely sticky. he didn't like it when people worried about him (he didn't like it when people thought about him in general, really). 

"i don't know, what's a normal amount of skinny? i got like- ribs and shit. as in- i mean everyone _has_ ribs, i'm just saying you can _see mine._ i'm like a whole ass skeleton boy. do you think my bones are ready to hatch yet?"

it was quiet for a moment, wilbur clumsily pushing himself off the wall and continuing his journey to nowhere in specific. 

"that's not good, will." 

wilbur scoffed, rolling his eyes. "didn't realize." 

it was quiet again, yet wilbur was sure he heard shuffling from the other end of the phone, maybe a jingle of keys and a door shutting softly. even now, even drunk, he could feel his fingers twitching softly at the thought of being saved by his 30 year old gamer friend. and that had nothing to do with phil at all, it had _everything_ to do with him. kindness like phil's took hard work, and wilbur did nothing but grasp at his feet and make it harder. 

"okay, do you think you could look around for street signs?"

it took a bit of time and a ridiculous amount of wilbur losing his shit and stumbling against every surface in sight, but they eventually managed to pinpoint his location. apparently phil was coming to get him. wilbur had already assumed that, but it felt more shitty now that he knew. he had decided earlier that night that he was perfectly fine with wasting away on a park bench or curled up on the pavement, stepped over by disgruntled adults on their way to work and shot dirty looks from the nastier ones. at least it would feel normal, at least he wouldn't feel out of place and larger than life. he was a beggar thrown into a palace and expected to thrive, but it wasn't hard to find himself back on his knees again. 

by the time phil had pulled up behind wilbur, he was shivering lightly in his position, crouched on the sidewalk. he had gotten used to the warmth again, having closed his windows almost two weeks ago. the episode had ended as it always did, crying in a corner and trying to convince himself he wasn't _insane._ he wasn't crazy. he heard voices and trembled pointlessly in a bathtub for days but that wasn't madness (if that's not madness, then what is?). 

he think's phi looked sad, but that was understandable. he wasn't necessarily a happy sight, tired and breaking on the pavement. his hair was an overgrown mess, brushed through at some point in the evening but mused and tangled afterwards. the softness of his face had faded slightly, but surprisingly it was almost normal. it was good for streams, wilbur thought. his face never seemed to dip past an unhealthy or noticeable shape, but the illusion was less effective in person. the oversized maroon jumper contrasted grossly with his pale skin, neckline showing off the sharp bones underneath. but he was sure he was a pretty sight for other's less personally attached to his wellbeing. unaware, drunk and alone on an empty street, fluffy hair and pale skin, marks on his neck and blush painting his cheeks. 

"wilbur- jesus- come on, let's get you home." the older man said quietly, wrapping his arms around wilbur's middle to steady his walking. by the time they made it to the car and dumped wilbur into the passengers seat, he was close to dead on his feet, tired as he often was. he was sick of being tired and tired of being sick.

they drove home in silence, phil's fingers tapping nervously on the steering wheel and gaze wandering back to the shaking boy in the seat next to his. 

he had known, of course, that wilbur wasn't nearly as okay as he pretended to be. he had heard his music before, understood the context laid out solemnly as the lyrics continued to follow a melancholy tune. but that was maybe as far as the other would open up, refusing to extend a hand for other's to grasp with the same stubbornness he had always exhibited. phil never understood why he was so keen on keeping to himself, but he was starting to understand why he couldn't let him. he tried not to think about what would have happened if wilbur decided not to answer his calls, wondered if he would have collapsed against a wall and drifted off there. 

when they reached wilbur's house, he had already fallen asleep in the passengers seat, sticky with guilt and bursts anxiety as the alcohol started to ware thin in his body. he didn't wake up again that night, not as phil practically carried him through the door and set him down on his bed, or as the older man bustled around quietly to set water and medicine on his bedside table. he didn't feel the slightly calloused fingers brushing back his curls, but when he woke up he quickly spotted the handwritten note next to a glass of water. 

_don't do that again, will. call and talk to me, i'm always here._

_-phil_

he didn't get out of bed that day. 

////////////

he thinks the last he smoked a cigarette had been around the time of his ARG project with jack. he still remembers coughing into a snowy hillside, throat burning with mistreatment and muscles jerking in an effort to clear his lungs of charred debris. his habit came in spurts, he wasn't one to keep up the same distraction for more than a couple weeks, but it was dangerous none the less considering he smoked an abnormal amount in such a short period of time. it was always dangerous during recording periods, it was never easy playing it off as illness when his vocal chords withered and scraped against each other for weeks on end. it didn't really matter at this point, he had planned on taking a break from streaming anyway. 

although taking a break from streaming specifically to smoke through 4 packs of cigarettes was unreasonably depressing. wilbur didn't really know when his life would stop being a pity party, but he couldn't really help it. off seasons like these sprouted slowly, but once it's roots took hold, he found himself trapped in an endless cycle of shitty mornings and nightly crisis'. waking up and immediately searching for a reason to suffer through another day of whatever horse shit people called living. so he found something, anything really, that might change the way he lived for just enough time to dig a few feet (it didn't matter whether he dug himself out or further down, he made his way out eventually). 

smoking calmed his nerves, eased his mind just a little. he liked the feeling of it, too. the taste and smell, the way it stung when he held it in for just long enough. it made him feel a little more tangible, a little more real. drifting was fun until you find yourself trapped in endless nothing with no way to come back down. 

days like these were spent alone and bitter, avoiding conversations with friends as some shitty form of self preservation. if they heard his grating voice and wet coughs they'd start to get worried (wilbur ignores the fact that he should be worried too). he thinks one of these days he's going to get cancer, maybe choke on his own fluids, sprawled out on the floor and suffocating slowly. it's what he deserves, maybe. people would move on fairly quickly, he was just a youtuber after all. it wasn't hard to understand his viewers attachment to him, or his friends obvious care, but he's almost certain they've fooled themselves into believing he's worth any of the time they spend thinking about him. they'll figure it out, he's sure. 

they always do. 

the day is spent drowning in the past, regardless of his hatred towards whatever self pity sits heavily in his chest. the air around him is polluted with smoke, furniture and clothing soaked in the potent smell of it. he's too tired to open a window. he's too tired to do anything. skin stretched tightly over bones, cracked lips, thin hair, pale skin. he's dying and he knows it. it's only a matter of time, no longer a decision or choice. it doesn't matter how much he might want to live one day, he'll wake up and stumble out of bed and pass out, maybe starve in his sleep. he'd _dying dying dying dead_ , and right now, laid out messily on the wooden floors, he's okay with it. 

it's not until later that evening when wilbur get's a call, phone buzzing gently on the floor next to his nearly-lifeless form. the man grunts, slowly bending stiff joints and pushing himself up into a sitting position, his lip stinging painfully as he bites down on it to push against a sudden wave of dizziness. once the onslaught passes, wilbur blinks his eyes open slowly and glances down at the phone by his side, seeing techno's discord profile sitting innocently on his phone screen. anxiety rattled deep inside his bones, insecurity and self consciousness dripping out of his pores like sweat. if he answers his voice will sound like nights of swallowed sandpaper and rocks, blackened vocal chords and charred lungs. disappointing. 

he answers anyway. 

techno's signature "hallu" greets him from the other line almost immediately, accompanied by rapid typing and the occasional click of a mouse. why was the younger man calling him? 

"hey, blade. what do you need?" wilbur closed his eyes and breathed tiredly at the sound of his own voice. 

techno was silent on the other end, keyboard clicking halting all-together. 

"wilbur?"

the man cringed, ignoring the panic flaring in his stomach. _he's not going to guilt you, he won't make you feel bad. he's not like that. he cares about you. he knows how to talk to people. he knows how to handle you. you aren't in trouble, you haven't done anything wrong._

"yeah?"

"have you been smokin' again?"

a desperate feeling wrung out his stomach and left him feeling hollowed out and cold, breath catching slightly on the inhale as he attempted to shove down whatever was welling up and out of him. he remembers the first time they talked to him about smoking, late night on a call, phil wondering aloud as wilbur quietly practiced a few of his original songs. it was mentioned after a quick rendition of _losing face,_ a half hearted question as tommy messed around with hacking clients for a video idea and techno read quietly in his bed with the call offering helpful background noise.

 _"do you smoke, wilbur?"._ the others seemed to pause, perking up in interest at the question. they hadn't known each other for long at the time, but they all knew they got along well. it just fit, the four of them. wilbur didn't want to ruin it, didn't know how to answer in a way that wouldn't shatter the peaceful atmosphere. would they judge him? hate him? lecture him? it was so early in their friendship, if they decided they didn't like him then it would be easy to leave (although it seemed to be easy for plenty other people to leave just the same, no matter how long wilbur spent burrowing into their heads). _"not too often, phil. don't worry. i haven't in quite a while, not since fetus-hood"_ he had joked quietly. the lie was accepted with a hum of acknowledgement before they all went back to fiddling in comfortable companionship, conversing sparingly as the night went on. 

he hadn't wanted to talk about it. 

he still doesn't. 

"let me rephrase, wilbur. why have you been smokin' again?"

wilbur just huffed, letting himself fall back onto the floor. 

"just feels nice." he mumbled out half heartedly, head tipped back and eyes closing against the ill-fitting brightness in his room. why didn't he turn the lights off? oh, right. that involved getting up. wilbur could hear the younger respond with a hum, typing starting up again. he was probably messaging phil. or maybe he was just moving on, which was reasonable. it wasn't even that big of a deal, he'll end up quitting again in a few days no matter what his friends say to him. he'll be find. dying, a little dead, starving and tired, but fine. wilbur always found his way out of this endless pit of dreary days blurring into darkness and fatigue, pieces of his sanity chipping more and more each time he opened his eyes just to realize he had been dragged back down. it just took time. 

"'course it feels nice, you would assume that's why people smoke so much. but that's not really the answer i'm lookin' for, will."

"i don't know what you-"

"yes you do."

wilbur sighed, eyes rolling back under his closed eyelids, fingertips carving crescent shaped divots into his palm. 

"it's just been dull, i guess." 

"that's not a good enough reason to poison yourself."  
  


the brunet bit back a jab, swallowing whatever defense mechanism he had developed between childhood and now. he _knew_ techno was right, he couldn't pretend like he wasn't just because part of him (a concerningly large part) wanted nothing more than to fall apart in an empty house. nobody else needed to watch, nobody else needed to deal with whatever spilled through his cracks and infected the walls around him. he'd go back to normal and everyone would forget. 

"it's fine, tech. it won't be a problem." and with that he hung up, body heavy as gravity pinned him down. gravity always seemed heavier now-a-days. 

and he was right, really. he stopped smoking three days later, spitting up bile into the toilet. 

it was fine (it wasn't). 

////////////

im mentally ill :)


	2. sad with no happy but they find out!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [the hoodie the older man had thrown on was oversized, nicely offering the illusion that he wasn't nearly as thin as he really was. techno's hand had fallen through loose fabric in an uncomfortably shocking way, and he didn't seem to appreciate the sight it presented.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more sad more sad more sad more sad
> 
> my writing style is inconsistent and i got lazier and lazier as i wrote this
> 
> please be kind
> 
> im sorry that i've hurt all of you lovely people

_this was fine,_ wilbur thought. 

this was okay. 

vaguely pultruding bones pressed uncomfortably into the back of his office chair, empty stomach a distant, yet constant hindrance. the cursor blinked on the screen in front of him, jumbles of words that wilbur knew looked the picture of insanity left in a trail at it's wake. the plot points he had made while on call with phil, techno, and tommy were pages above, paragraphs of rambling laying waste to the well thought-out script. this was perfect. this was healthy.

his eyelid's fell shut, and a copy pasted paragraph on all the reasons they should stay that way made itself known in his mind. he didn't realize the fingers flying across his keyboard were printing them out on the document, like poison dripping onto the page. 

this was normal. 

wilbur heaved a heavy sigh, stretching out in an attempt to ease the ache in his joins. reaching back over, the man clicked once and dragged his curser across the screen, highlighting his thought's in blue before deleting them tiredly. he stared at the empty space, and began to type once again, this time for only a few moments. when he saved his changes, closed the program, pushed himself up, and throws himself tiredly into bed, he only thought about how _normal_ this was. it would be normal when the other's woke up, it would be normal when they read the script. it would be fine, okay, great, even. a good ending to a good arc. 

on a busy document tucked away into a personal file, sitting in coded strings as his computer lay dormant, was two very normal sentences. 

_wilbur destroys l'manburg, and is killed shortly after. the villain finally dies._

he always did have a taste for theatrics, didn't he?

////////////

tommy likes his music, which is a well known fact. known in the sense that he's very clearly expressed his opinion on it on stream and in call's, brash voice singing along loudly with excited expertise. the words had been memorized as soon as they could have been, and every time wilbur heard his writing on tommy's voice, his insides warmed sweetly. writing was always something the man cherished, and even if his popular songs were ingenuine in a comedic way, it didn't make him feel any less appreciated. any less special. 

but wilbur never knew tommy liked his other music, too. 

it started with "squids are people too", which, to be fair, is probably one of his most ridiculous songs. sure, it was unreleased and slightly obscure, but that didn't necessarily mean tommy was a fanatic of every song wilbur had ever sang and released on the internet. maybe he just liked squids, maybe he thought the song was funny. either way, it was a sweet sentiment. 

and then there was jubilee line, and many other songs from _your city gave me asthma._ wilbur tried not to be surprised, even pretended he didn't get slightly sick at the idea of tommy sitting alone at night, listening to his songs about sad shit. it's a much more troubling image than tommy playfully headbanging to fake-incel music, and wilbur is easily beginning to realize how his fans must feel when they picture him writing such morbid lyrics and plucking them out on well-worn strings. but either way, it wasn't a big deal. it was a popular album full of popular songs, and tommy could listen to whatever he liked. 

which led them here. 

"wilbs, what does _'i'll make a home inside your gut'_ mean?" 

the man in question, who had previously been messily chopping carrots (the only real food he had in the house at the moment) into sticks (easier for ranch dipping), paused his movements, heel of the knife poised mid air over a particularly fat carrot. 

wilbur never thought tommy would find his unreleased _music_ music, and even if he did, he never thought he'd be _interested in it_. 

"um- just. i don't know, i guess i just wanted some weird imagery to symbolize my- uh. attachment to her? i wanted to be a part of her, so she wouldn't forget me. or leave me. all that gooey love shit."

tommy was quiet for a moment. 

"that's sad."

"really? i thought it was kinda romantic."

"why would that be romantic?"

wilbur's shoulder's hiked up in defense, teeth clamping down painfully over his tongue. he _knew_ his mind didn't work right. he knew he had things mixed up, and he was tired of learning how wrong the gears in his brain turned. but- but was he wrong on this? surely not. the relationship was unhealthy, that was obvious. but what they had was good at some point, and love was love. as long as he loved her, and she loved him, there was a chance it could have been perfect. _that_ was the tragedy. he couldn't make it work. 

"well- there's all those songs talking about couples being connected, and a part of each other. what's so wrong about the way i said it?"

"it's just- _'cuz it's somewhere warm to_ _sleep_ '? i don't think love works like that. the song is meant to be about how bad she was, right? so why would you wanna be a part of her? or maybe you just needed her? that's what it sounds like. why would you even want to need someone bad?"

wilbur just groaned tiredly. tommy didn't know what he was talking about, and it was _almost_ amusing. he was sixteen, shouldn't he know how this works?  
  


"tommy, she wasn't bad. i just didn't love her like i was supposed to."

"then how was the stomach line thing romantic? isn't love supposed to feel good?"

"i dont't think so."

it was quiet then, nothing but the sound of wilbur's knife coming down on his week-old carrot's. he didn't process what he said, brain too tired and stressed and hungry and _sad_ to realize he shouldn't think that anymore. he didn't process that he was probably regressing, probably falling back into mentalities that he thought he learned to drop. he didn't process how disappointing it was that he could break so easily. 

"but that's... but love is- but you love me, don't you?"

"of course i do, tommy."

"so why wouldn't it feel good?"  
  


he thought about the way tommy made his heart ache with comfort, made his hands tremor less violently, and even sometimes, made him want to try a little harder. that was good, wasn't it? it felt good... but did it? because he could remember all the nights he stayed up hating himself for being friend's with someone like tommy in the first place, all the times he couldn't think around the idea of ruining the kid like adults had ruined him. who was wilbur to make tommy think of shit like unhealthy love? love hurt because wilbur knew he didn't really deserve it, didn't deserve to feel it or receive it. 

"it feels good to love you, tommy," he lied instead, scooping his carrot sticks into a bowl. "relationships are different. they're supposed to be hard, and take effort. the ones that don't work out, they teach you things. that's just how it works."

"i think you're wrong, will."

"why would i be wrong?"

"what if you get the hurt without the learning?"

"well that's not what happened."

"then what did you learn?"

"that i can't fucking do it right" the older joked as he flopped into a kitchen chair, bottle of ranch in one hand a bowl of carrot's in the other. he bit back a hiss as his tailbone pressed violently against wood. he really shouldn't be this boney ( _maybe he'd finally starve_ ). 

"that's- wilbur, what?"

carrot half chewed, the curly haired man sighed. 

"i was just kidding around, tommy. i don't know, i guess i just learned that i needed to try harder? be better and all that, you know how it goes."

"well how can i trust that?"

"huh?"

"phil says sometimes, our perception of the situation changes when our brain's trick us with funky shit. out memories and stuff get like- altered. how can i trust what you're saying?"

"why do you need to? it already happened."

"wilbur, why should i support your idea that you should've been better, if you were being your best?"

"i wasn't, tommy."

"were you at least trying your best?"

"of course i was!"

"then what were you doing _wrong?_ " 

"sometimes people are just bad, tommy!"

"will, you aren't bad."

"how would you know?"

"how would _you!?"_

wilbur blinked. clenched his fists. bounced his leg. 

"hey- uh. that- i'll talk to you more about um- this. later. not now, i have to go-"

"wait, will no, i didn't mean to sna-"

the call went dead as long fingers clicked the red 'end' button, phone discarded on the table as he slipped back into his bedroom. the bowl of carrots sat half finished on the dining room table. he thinks he's dying. 

_"how would you?"_

because he knows, he _knows._

he knows he's shit. he knows he's a mess. he knows he's _damaged._ he knows she was perfect, and he knows she should've left him earlier than she did. he talked too much about his problems, didn't try hard enough to make it work between them, didn't try hard enough to look nicer when they were together. she found someone else, and wilbur long since cringed at the word _cheating._ she didn't cheat. there wasn't any competition. he didn't know why he had ever even tried to call her _'mine'_. 

////////////

"perfect, i like that idea. so techno, did you write you speech?"

"yup. greek mythology references in all. you're really milking my 'badass war god' gimmick."

"like you don't. anyway, so we all think wilbur should die, right?'

"yeah that would be best, i think. he did write it into the first draft, after all."

"yeah. will, you like that idea too, right?"

"...wilbur?"

"oh- yeah. yeah that'd be fine."

////////////

_"so we all think wilbur should die, right?"_

he swallowed around his dry throat, frame melted into the bed from fatigue. he's sure he could count his ribs by now. at least it was something familiar, he could still remember running his fingertips over the dipping expanse of his chest when he was younger. it wasn't healthy, he hadn't been healthy. 

_"will, you aren't bad."_

_"how could you know?"_

_"how could_ you _?"_

he swallowed again.

_"wilbur should die, right?"_

this was fine. 

this was normal. 

////////////

"kill me phil- phil kill me. kill me! stab me with the sword, kill me, kill me, look they all want you to, _do it phil, do it, kill me_ -"

"i- you're my _son!_ "

" _kill me!_ "

his hand slams against the desk in front of him, uncaring of the office workers in the building.

acting, will. you're so good at acting, the chat said. you're so good at _pretending_. 

"this isn't- look! _look!_ look at how much work was put into this, and its _gone,_ " _look at everything i've ruined, look at all the shit i mess up, look at how i've gone_ insane- "...do it. _do it._ "

his minecraft character poofed, items scattered in front of him. wilbur hit the respawn button. leaned back. smiled. 

time to go back to acting. 

////////////

for lack of better words, wilbur thinks he's doing find. his thighs sting sometimes from hidden wounds, his head spins when he stands, his fingers wrap around his wrists with ease, his bed becomes his constant place of comfort, and he barely talks to anyone outside of work, but he's doing better. or so to say, nothing he's doing is harming his upload schedule or viewer interaction. he was almost sure he would be able to climb out of this whole in no time, but he think's this works too. because he's figured out how to prop himself just high enough for his voice to carry out through ground level, and as long as no one checks to see, he can almost pretend he's up there with them. they don't have to know that his lack of eating bounces violently from lack of appetite to a shitty attempt at appeasing his brutal insecurities. they don't have to know that one bad habit isn't enough anymore. 

they don't have to know he's dying. 

ghostbur is fun. he can pretend his raspy voice isn't from tobacco coated smoke, and that each rejection and mock act of distaste doesn't burn in satisfying approval. he knows they're acting, but his mind is almost _proud._ it's the only admittance he'll ever get from them, because they're all too nice to tell him they fucking hate him. this is a good way to vent, his brain says. this is a good way for them to come clean without hurting his feelings. 

it's hurting his feeling's anyway. 

but other than that, he's doing peachy. consistent uploads, frequent appearances on streams, new set-up on it's way, a distance being subtly made as wilbur slowly wedges a block of professionalism between him and all his friends. they can't get close, they don't need to know. 

(he's almost certain techno is coming to visit england soon. he's almost certain they'll want him to come so they can hang out as a group together. like family. he's almost certain they'll take one look at his paper thin, pale and shivering form and try and treat him like he deserves their pity.)

he alive, but he's sure he's already dead. 

or at the very least dying. 

////////////

he's always been known to drink a lot, even his fans known. most of his song's include his rather depressing relationship with substance abuse, so when he heard that fundy, jack and tommy were on stream together, he briefly wondered whether he should really be bothering his fans and friend's with his _very_ intoxicated presence. 

but then again, _he was very intoxicated._

tommy fussed over wilbur the moment he realized the older's situation. 

_"where are you?"_

_"how drunk are you?"_

_"why are you outside?"_

he had no idea

very

because he was suffocating in regret and loneliness during the holidays. why else?

it went fairly well, all things considered. his location was never pinpointed, nobody ever kidnapped him, and he never drowned in the ocean. he had considered, briefly of course. but tonight was a good one for his friend's and fans, who was he to ruin it with his _oh so tragic_ passing? 

he barely even notices the things he lets slip, barely pays attention to the straggler tweets that couldn't help but acknowledge how worrying it was that a lanky 24 year old was getting drunk to ignore his own sadness and jumping into the ocean, a concerning lack of food making disaster even more likely. did he have no self preservation skills? surely, even drunk, he could recognize how dangerous he was being? why hadn't he eaten? its not good to drink because you're sad, it's a bad habit. 

wilbur doesn't need his teenage fanbase telling him how much of a mess he was. 

he's genuinely surprised he didn't die of alcohol poisoning on christmas, soul soaked in vodka and stomach contracting around half a bagel. 

////////////

"are you doin' anything for new years?"

"uh- not particularly. i'm planning on staying in though, it's been busy and i'd like a break."

neither him nor techno commented on the fact that he hadn't seen anyone in weeks ( _months. it's been months since he's seen a friend or family members, even more since he's had a hug._ ) 

"you up to see anyone?"

"maybe."

he let his head fall back against the bathroom tile. his boxer-clad legs showing off his marred thighs. it really was a bad habit, but he didn't think he had the energy or the will to stop. 

"mmm. okay. watcha doin' now?"

wilbur snorted. techno made a confused noise. 

"nothing just- you probably wouldn't be interested anyway."

"ehh?"

"night, techno."

"don't be all cryptid n' shit-"

"bye."

he sighed again. stared down at his lap. unfolded his legs and swung them over the side of the tub so his back pressed against the wall behind him and his legs bent clumsily over the rim in front of him. 

_don't go too far,_ he tells himself every time, _what would they all do when he stopped showing up for streams?_

////////////

when a round of strong, rhythmic knocking drifted into the hell-scape that was wilbur's bedroom, he was completely adamant on ignoring it. spontaneous visitors pissed him off, delivery men at the wrong houses would figure it out eventually, and solicitors pissed him off even more. his bed was perfectly comfortable, even if his hip bones never really stopped pressing into the mattress awkwardly. the price of being mentally ill, apparently (among many, much more inconvenient things).

but they didn't stop knocking. 

and then his phone was buzzing beside him. 

and then an _uncomfortably_ familiar voice was obnoxiously yelling at him from across a house and behind a front door.

jesus christ. 

it took another 3 minutes of stumbling into clothing and tugging on a blanket and hoodie before he was yanking open the front door, ignoring the fact that standing up so quickly had resulting black dots that still lingered in his vision. standing in front of his door, one unsteady hand shoved into his hoodie pocket and the other clenching around his door handle, legs slightly shaky and face a sleepy mess, wilbur is half expecting the trio of men on his doorstep to turn right around and walk back down his front steps. part of him even hoped they would. 

what the _fuck_ were they doing here.

but then phil was beaming, and tommy was laughing his loud as sin laugh and techno- 

wilbur flinches as he makes eye contact with the younger man, who's own eyes were squinted into a perceptive glare. like he could see through wilbur's skin and straight at his rapidly beating heart. did he look that bad? 

_you always look bad, you'll never look unbroken, you'll never look whole. too skinny, too fat, too tired, too loud, too busy, too dull, too_ much. _always too much._

"will! what the hell took you so long?"

the tallest swallowed around a lump in his throat, tearing his eyes away from techno in favor of meeting phil's. the father-like figure was dressed in a hoodie and warm winter coat, eyes just as warm as soft as the rest of him looked. it made wilbur's heart hurt. it made his skin buzz. god, he just wanted a _hug._ but then tommy was darting towards him, obviously remembering his warm inviting arms the last time they had met, and wilbur's brain _blared_ , heart jumping and body jerking back to avoid whatever burning touch the youngest would try to give him. 

the hurt confusion in the now halted boy just made wilbur's head blare louder. 

this wasn't supposed to happen. the wedge was supposed to be driven, deep seated and stuck between too opposing world's who had the urge to draw towards each other. _this_ was toxic, wilbur thinks. anything involving _him_. it wasn't her cheating, or his parents yelling, or his old friend's and their constant need to drag him down, down, _down._ he's entirely sure that he's always been the problem. he was born to self destruct and rip apart everyone around him in the blast, so he needed them _gone._ gone before they found him bloody in his bathtub, or passed out next to his bed because he tried to stand, or decomposing on the fucking floor because he's never been good at keeping himself alive. he was born to die and that's why he was never really alive. 

he thinks tommy is too busy being hurt, phil too busy being confused, because nobody is really noticing his tilting form, or just barely concealed hyperventilating (he'd learned far too long ago how to pretend he wasn't panicking). he already accepted the fact that he'd fall over and hit the floor. maybe die. hopefully die. 

a hand wrapped around his bicep and he almost screams, although a choked noise of panic still pushes passed his clenched teeth. somehow, phil looks physically pained by the noise. tommy just looks scared. the hand around his arm can almost close around the entire circumference, and it's only then that wilbur flicks his wide eyes up to techno, whose own gaze in locked on the hand that he had anchored around wilbur's arm. the hoodie the older man had thrown on was oversized, nicely offering the illusion that he wasn't nearly as thin as he really was. techno's hand had fallen through loose fabric in an uncomfortably shocking way, and he didn't seem to appreciate the sight it presented. 

"will."

the room stayed silent. 

"okay- okay. here's what we're gunna do," techno turned around to face phil and tommy, both of which had apparently processed how fucking _small_ wilbur looked, how scared, "you two, come all the way inside. close the door behind you." he turned back towards wilbur, who's breath was still labored, although his grip on reality was slowly untethering, sense muffling dangerously as he drifted closer and closer towards shutting down. he couldn't _be here_. _they_ couldn't be here. "will! can you walk?"

the tall brit opened his mouth instinctually, already prepared to do whatever he could to convince the three of them that he was _fine,_ and they needed to _leave,_ so he could maybe off-himself in his bathtub and fall into the void with peaceful bliss. was that too much to ask for? 

"sorry, shouldn't have asked. of course you can't walk. knew you'd try and bullshit your way out of this. how okay are you with being touched?"

_hug me hug me hug me hug me wrap yourself around me and hide me i don't want to be here anymore i don't want to exist anymore make me feel small small small small-_

"don't- not-"

"okay, okay" techno crooned softly, slowly bringing how arm behind wilbur's back to steady him on his feet. phil and tommy had already wandered inside, sitting stiffly on his dining room chairs. "hey guys, you think you could make him something light to eat?"

techno ignored the already nagging suspicion that nothing edible would be sitting pretty in wilbur's cabinet's or fridge. the man had been alone for far too long, far too unsteady to pursuit a healthily stalked kitchen in favor of simply _starving._ he was starving. his suspicions were confirmed fairly quickly after settling wilbur on the couch, the younger crouched on the floor in front of him as he murmured soft instructions on how to even out his breathing. 

"what the fuck."

"tommy-"

"no, will, what the fuck?"

techno chanced a glance behind him to see tommy, arms crossed defensively over his own lanky body while phil continued to rummage through a hopelessly barren kitchen. wilbur was breathing deeper now, although his hands were nearly vibrating from what techno was sure was a mix of anxiety and a bad adrenaline crash. and _fucking malnourishment._ tommy just glared harder. 

"tommy, not now."

"what do you mean not now?!"  
  


"toms-" phil chimed in from behind him, closing the last cabinet with a grim expression on his face. 

"no! when is the right fucking time? we came to cheer will up because we thought- _knew_ he was lonely n' shit, no _this!_ what the fuck even is ' _this_ '?! he looks like he's about to fucking shrivel up and die! decompose! rot-!"

" _tommy!_ " techno finally interrupted, decidedly ignoring wilbur's flinching form behind him. "not. _now._ "

tommy's mouth opened, eyebrows screwed up angrily and posture winding up into something defensive and angry, before his jaw suddenly snapped shut. anger still smoldered darkly in his eyes, but techno didn't get a good look at them before the teen was storming down the hall and into the bathroom. the lock clicked behind him. 

phil threw a glance at techno, who simply nodded and turned back to wilbur. the oldest just sighed and turned down the hall tommy had stomped down, ready to talk him down with practiced words. the boy had a temper that he always struggled to control, and they all knew he hated himself for it. it was better when someone was with him, when he finally cooled off. better than when he spiraled into insecurity. techno looked back towards wilbur, wondering how many times the older had come down from anxiety episodes or dissociative episodes just to find no one there. 

he shoved down the thought. 

it stayed persistently in his mind. 

"wilbur?"

the older was shaking from his place on the couch, knees pulled up to his chests and gaze distant. techno could tell he was still present though, from the way his muscles twitched at his name on techno's lips. this wasn't supposed to happen, he thought. _this wasn't supposed to happen._

"will, please. you gotta say somethin'."

when the older's eyes finally met his, the pupils were blown wide from panic and processing issues. they shined from unshed tears. techno swallowed around the surging _confusion anger protectiveness anger confusion guilt guilt guilt confusion_ that clogged his throat and chest. but then wilbur was whispering a broken _"i'm sorry"_ and techno really wasn't built for this kind of situation. awkward and uncomfortable and emotionally distant, unable to read situations and unable to properly comfort someone aside from panic attacks, simply because he knew what _he_ needed when he came down from one. but this? this kind of broken? he didn't know what do with this. 

"what are you- what are you sorry for, wilbur?"

"shouldn't be like this. ruined your holiday." came the mumbled response from in front of him, and techno ached at the sentiment. what was he thinking? how long had he been valuing himself as so _small_ that he was even begin to believe they cared more about having a fun new years party than making sure he didn't starve in his own damn empty house. 

he was just about to respond when an _incredibly angry_ tommy burst through the bathroom door, phil at his heal (when did phil manage to get inside?)

"tommy- tommy stop just wait, he's still-"

"why the _fuck_ would you do this shit, will?!" tommy shouted as he strode into the room on tense legs, bloody gauze and glints of shining metal making themselves visible from where he had them balled into his hand. techno's eyes widened. he wouldn't (he _would_ ). 

"tommy-!"

"no, phil, this isn't fucking okay! wilbur soot, what the _hell?!_ "

it was silent for a moment, nothing but the sound of labored breathing from both tommy and wilbur could be heard. techno let his eyes shut tightly, questioning how the fuck this had happened. how had they even let this happen? 

phil's hands were shaking from where he stuffed them into his pockets, the shock of finding bloody bandages and tissues in a bag under the sink along with a box of sloppily cleaned razors still pumping through his system. he knew wilbur wasn't okay, he _knew_ he needed help. he can't believe he left wilbur with a request to contact his and just- _fucking forgot to even check._ not once did he ask wilbur how he was genuinely doing. 

one of his best friend's had been starving himself, running himself into the ground, and what- what? _cutting?_

tommy was livid. 

angry and confused and _hurt,_ because why? why would he? what could he have fucking done to warrant this level of self _despise._ what justification did he think he had to simply allow himself to starve alone, bleed alone, _hurt_ all damn alone. who thinks they deserve that. who made him think he deserved that? who made him think that this was even remotely okay? was it his ex? tommy would fucking beat her up. he'd kill that woman and it would feel _good,_ because techno's hand wrapped around wilbur's arm like it was his wrist and this wasn't even remotely okay. they had been streaming for months, they had been acting all fine and jolly for _months,_ and how many of those days did wilbur sit alone in his bathtub with blood on his- wherever the fuck he does it. 

what was happening, and _why?_

wilbur didn't really think anything except how much he liked the way his blood looked on those bandages, slipping slowly from tommy's hand as the teenager continued to process everything that had happened in the last 15 minutes. 

////////////

can you tell i'm evil because i still haven't written the comfort part because i deemed it necessary to fill this entire fucking chapter with _depression_ and it's now 1am and i'm too mentally drained (again) to write fluff? aha. we get closer and closer towards hurt/comfort every day, gaymers. hold on for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nOTE !! 
> 
> in case anyone is weirded out by this, please understand that i am NOT speculating or anything lmao. this is all shitty coping mechanisms and venting, along with getting out hyperfixations (yes i hyperfixate on a minecraft youtuber's mental health issues, no it's not fun fjaajdalfj). this is brutally depressing and set IRL, which is understandably strange. just understand that i, in no way, am insinuating that any of this stuff is happening to wilbur in real time. 
> 
> anyway, hope all of you enjoyed :')

**Author's Note:**

> haha get fucked, no happy for you bitches <3


End file.
